Violin-Magic: (To R. P. C.)

I HEARD you touch a fairy thing
That lured the trees to blossoming;
I saw them flush — and then you made
Their green leaves greener as you played.
You drew your how so gently down
I dared not breathe lest breathing drown
The tender little crooning tone
That was a wood-thrush all alone.
The tense string quivered, and I knew
Where grasses strange with morning dew
Climb a far hill I love, that all
The drops they wore shone magical,
Brimmed with the dawn, nor lovelier
Than those your crystal measures were.
The deepest forest-dusk you found
With silver darts of moonlit sound
That pierced the trees’ reluctant crowd
And made the dryads laugh aloud;
I hear them now, and one I hear
Whose voice unearthly-thin and clear
Bears trace as through the trees she slips
Of wildwood honey on her lips.
But when your enigmatic mood
Nor dawn nor dusk of a deep wood
Nor dryad’s laugh nor thrush’s song
Nor April’s blossoms would prolong,
And only wayward beauty calls
Along your argent intervals,
Then am I tranced with listening,
Lest my heart stir or anything
Within me question, and your soul
Withdraw from mine its dear control;
Like him, Grail-sent, whom named of men
The white swan bore away again.